LA Goes To The Movies

Hey-o, LA the Cinema Sage here. Over the last several weeks I’ve been to the movies quite often but what with the election and the world going to shit and trying to get cleared to go back to work but in a different department and that despite adding 10mgs of escitalopram to the mouthful of other wonder drugs I swallow every morning my anxiety is still so bad that some days it’s really, really hard to function at all. Like it’s too difficult to comb my hair and trying to decide if I want coffee or tea will make me cry so I grab another Sprite and then cry some more because Sprite is making me fatter and it’s wrecking the food budget…so yeah, blogging about movie reviews just hasn’t been a priority. However today I’m here on this plane of existence and functioning well enough to change out of my bathrobe into actual clothes. (3rd day running! Whoo! Go me!) What better way to celebrate being quasi-human than to talk about the things I do in the dark with a roomful of strangers?


Jack Reacher: Never Go Back – They warned us right there in the title, didn’t they? Do NOT go back for another helping of this lame action series. But it was Mick’s turn to pick and while my husband has excellent taste in picking second wives his movie choices are at best unimaginative. The Jack Reacher sequel wasn’t so much bad as it had been done before. Done to death. I was literally reciting the dialog three beats ahead of the characters speaking their lines. Every story ‘twist’ was so hackneyed I was embarrassed for everyone involved- us, the crew, the cast, the media flacks, heck, even the kid who had to sweep up the spilled popcorn between showings. Was there anything good about this tired sequel? The meat hammer. I liked the meat hammer. At one point Reacher and his reluctant partner in adventure are fighting bad dudes in a restaurant kitchen and she doesn’t have a gun so she improvises. A meat hammer. It doesn’t fire bullets, but up close this thing WILL put a serious hurt on someone. Being a meat hammer kind of gal I appreciated the nod toward those of us who like our weapons blunt and surprisingly potent.

LA the Cinema Sage’s recommendation? Wait for this on Netflix and watch on a night when you are wanting distraction but nothing you care to get emotionally involved with.

Now while we’re on movies you can recite along with I took Sebastian to see…

Rocky Horror Picture Show – Actually on the same night as Reacher. When we were buying tix for the former we saw it listed on the marquee and immediately got our admission to the late night (but not midnight) special showing. After the Tom Cruise snore fest we had just enough time to get Mick home, load up with supplies for Rocky and get back to the Cineplex. Sebastian had watched the dvd and has gotten my copy autographed by Bostwick, Quinn, and Little Nell, but he’d never seen it on the big screen. Demented with glee we had our newspapers, squirt bottle, playing cards, toast, and confetti. Unfortunately we didn’t have rice or party noisemakers, nor were either of us in costume. I considered toilet paper (“Great Scott!”) but thought we had enough stuff for our impromptu outing. It worked out fine. With only 15 times under my belt I was no expert but I think I was the only one who’d ever been before and the small but enthusiastic house all giggled and cheered when my shouted questions and snarky remarks were answered by the people on screen. Sebastian and I tossed our stuff and shot our water bottle (normally it’s the cat punisher) and sang along loudly. (Of course he knew the songs, what kind of mother do you take me for? The soundtrack cd lives in the car and he’d been exposed since birth. Hell, I got a snotty phone call from Sebastian’s 2nd grade teacher about his show-stopping rendition of ‘Dammit, Janet’ during recess.) My son had a faboo time and is glad he’s not a virgin anymore.

Hacksaw Ridge – Another Mick pick, but I’m glad I saw it. As always there’s the clash between art and artist, where is the line if you like the former and loathe the latter? My beef with Mel Gibson actually predates his first anti-Semitic drunken spree and goes all the way back to his childhood in a nearby town and his Holocaust denying father’s decision to up his family and immigrate to Australia to avoid Mel’s elder brothers being drafted. Gibson Sr seemed to hate pretty much everyone and everything, including his wife who he impregnated with 10 kids between beatings. Yes you have to take gossip with big boulders of salt but the stench of Hutt Gibson’s cruelty still clings to Salisbury Mills. Mel comes by his love of misanthropy and snuff porn quite honestly. This is one fucked up clan.

Anyway, Hacksaw Ridge. Color me impressed. Yeah, Mel got to indulge his love of gore- all spraying guts and blood and chewed up bodies turned hamburger, but to an end this time. Desmond Doss’s story is noble. His values impossible to find fault with. His bravery unquestionable. But it’s the core decency of the man that is the real message. As crazy as it sounds Mel Gibson made a movie that celebrates and honors decency. Basic- no bones, no frills, no creed, no fricken side (left, right, Dem, GOP, etc, etc), just bottom line human decency. And how brilliantly straightforward doing the right thing can be. Not easy. No, no, no. Doing right is rarely the comfy hassle-free way to go, but it is always the obvious way if you look with clear eyes and an honest heart. LA the Cinema Critic’s say? See this movie. All of you.

Arrival – Seems a bit foolish to even review this movie, a linguist saves the world? Need you even ask? Words are my life. Their meaning, the shades of meaning, the construction of communication- signs, gestures, pictograms, grunts, State of the Union addresses, I don’t care what the flock the medium is-communication is everything. This movie is about that. If you’re looking for ‘Alien vs Predator’ or ‘Mars Attacks’ or (God help us) ‘Independence Day’ this is not the movie for you. However if you read, if you write, if you travel and have ever gotten into goofy situations because your guidebook and carefully memorized phrases about embassies and bathrooms has failed you, if you believe thinking is better than shooting, if you’ve ever thought about how hard it is to be truly understood, then yes, go see Arrival. At the very least it will give you and your companion something to wrangle over while you have pie and coffee afterward. Four stars out of five. It might have been a fiver but I seriously don’t care for Jeremy Renner, he irks me on the molecular level.

Last, not best but not least we have…

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them – How to review this? As a Potterphile? As a movie lover? As a storyteller? I don’t know, a little of each? Newt Scamander is Neville Longbottom without the homely phase. He’s a really decent guy with almost zero people skills and a whole lot of endearing awkwardness. The story is very much told by a Brit. The Americans are an intolerant lot. Quick to anger. Quicker to shoot. Almost entirely without imagination and charm. (See: muggle vs nomaj) Without the built-in hierarchy of station and class to the British eye the sole way of defining Americans is through their occupations and the depth of their wallets. Not an entirely inaccurate view but one that reckons without the American hope of upward mobility and stubborn belief we’re entitled to join the ruling class if hard work and luck are with us. We do NOT settle. Perhaps this is why the sole non-magical lead is so adorable. Jacob Kowalski is a hella good guy. Long after the CGI critters fade and even the story is a blur this one character stands clear and bright in my mind’s eye. There’d best be a place for him in the sequels or I will be seriously ticked off. And what of the sequels? It’s pretty obvious this movie is appetizer and prolog to what comes next. It can stand alone, but just barely. The whole picture felt like an introduction. Nothing wrong with world building and this movie certainly left a lot of interesting alleys to explore. And there’s always the addition of amusing troublesome critters to throw into the mix. Newt has a Hagrid-like blind spot about just how much mischief his collection of rescued animal pals can get into. It was interesting to watch a movie set in the magical world that didn’t have a book first. The Harry Potter movies were always freighted with the expectations of the readers. Without the glares of a billion devoted print loyalists Fantastic Beasts had a chance to see where it wanted to go without being bound by canon. Unfortunately it didn’t go very far. A promising beginning but only a beginning.

LA the Cinema Sage gives Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them a very hopeful 3.5 stars.


And that, my friends, is all I have for the nonce. Much love, your movie-loving pal, ~LA



Rosanne Rosannadanna Was Right


I’m guessing at least a few of you have been like, “Oh boy, I can’t WAIT to see what LA is going to say about this mishegoss.” Okay, only the ones who use Yiddish said that exact thing, but we’re all of a like mind here.

The thing is I don’t really want to talk about this, but here goes. My thoughts about what comes next.

  1. Trump did not expect to win. Nobody is more upset and shocked than he is.
  2. He has no idea what the job actually is. This is made clear by just two things- neither he nor his crew knew that with the exception of the porters, housekeepers and groundskeepers the entire staff at the White House is leaving when Obama does. Yes, Donnie, you have to hire your OWN staff. The other thing that makes it obvious Trump has zero clue about what this job really entails is that he’s all surprised he can’t go home to his golden penthouse every night. Yes, President-Elect Stupid Head, you have to LIVE at the White House! No worries though, you can bring all your shiny gold furniture and put it in the residence. You can still take your morning dump while sitting on your 24k toilet seat.
  3. With the ascension of an all Republican nation (President, House, Senate, 38 governors, most state congresses) all of their greediest, most socially reprehensible dreams come true. “Wall St completely unfettered! Good-bye EPA! Bust the unions! Kill the schools! Get those uppity bitches, spics, niggers, chinks, and ragheads down and afraid like they’re supposed to be! Goddamn it feels great to be in charge again!” And…it’s going to be a total failure. Just as Sam Brownback bankrupted and destroyed Kansas so too will this one party bacchanalia of greed and hate implode.
  4. When the butt-hurt white idiots who chose this fool realize that there are NO jobs ‘coming back’ (hello technology!) and the feeding frenzy at the trough by the corporate overlords doesn’t include them, in fact what tiny bit of safety and security they did have is now gone with the destruction of Social Security and Medicare the Duck Dynasty crowd is going to freak right the fuck out.
  5. There’s no one to blame it on this time. No Hillary, no Obama, no Pelosi, no evil ‘libtard’ at all. Not one of them is left to point fingers at and say they are to blame for blocking the progress of the Great White Might Machine. The truck nutz voters are in for one hell of a morning after.

Me? I am going to laugh and laugh.

“But LA, what about the Nazis? What about the mass deportations? What about the rollback of civil and women’s rights?”

No lie, shit is going to get ugly. Cleaning up the mess will be the work of a generation at least. What’s going to happen to the Supreme Court gives me hives just thinking about it. But every pendulum swings. Right now the free market fascists are having their moment in the sun. It won’t last. It never does. In the meantime while we wait it’s on each of us to have each other’s backs. This is where we CAN do something.

No one person can fix everything. But each person can do one thing.

Find your thing.

It doesn’t even have to be organized or official. There are plenty of worthy charities and awareness campaigns and other such groups to join. Give them your time. Your money. Sure. But in a hurting and uncertain world you have the power of one. And it is mighty indeed. Want some suggestions?

Once a month wash out the office coffee pot or clean out the fridge. Smile. Hold the door. Write Amazon reviews of our friends’ books and give printed copies to other friends as gifts. Call your cousins. Tell knock-knock jokes. Dance with your kids. And every once in a while let them have ice cream for dinner. In front of the TV. While watching ‘Tangled’ for the zillionth time. Shop local. Donate- whatever you can. Be gracious even if (especially if!) the other guy is rude. Be fierce! Insist that others’ space and safety be respected. Yes, even if it’s scary.

Of course I’m worried. You’d have to be an idiot not to be. I am especially concerned about what happens after Trump is impeached and that sicko Mike Pence takes over the Oval Office. What? You don’t believe a GOP controlled congress would boot Trump? C’mon. Ol’ Donnie Boy is just too risky. He’s illiterate. He’s too impulsive. He’s too New York. Trump doesn’t really have an agenda, he only has an inferiority complex and a gasping need to be the center of attention. Once the booing starts and the crushing grind of actually being held responsible for the nation’s wellbeing penetrates his dazzled glamor of being ‘the winner’ Trump will be out of DC like a scalded cat. I give ‘President’ Trump about 20 months. He won’t be the cooperative puppet Reagan and Bush W were. They were happy to wave and smile and hold the occasional incoherent press conference. Trump, unfortunately, believes his own myth. And he simply doesn’t have the smarts or the character to be a real leader, nor can he bend his own ego to be a willing face man. The GOP Sith will have to get rid of him. Pence will happily cooperate with the oil companies and big pharma just as long as the fags are stripped of their rights and the whores are suitably punished for having sex.

Mike Pence’s biggest fear is that someone might actually have a good time. He’s a miserable frightened little toad. He is, however, a much easier dupe than Trump. So the wailing white guys might have believed they were voting for one of their own in Trump, some self-made (ha!) manly man who has the babes and the cojones to bull right past all this touchy-feely PC bullshit and reestablish the kingdom of the pussy grabbing, steak eating, gas guzzling white guys. What they’re actually going to get is Cotton Mather. A parsimonious, sex-obsessed Calvinist who is so terrified of comfort and pleasure that he spends three hours a day kneeling on thumbtacks and flagellating himself with nettles wrapped in poison ivy.

That’s who we will be stuck with too.



You know it, Bette.


Much love, ~LA

Attempt # 83

Trying yet again to get something down on paper. Or screen as it happens but y’all know what I mean. Blogging has been too, too tough lately.

Right now Sebastian is watching this…


Freda Kelly will be at Chiller! Yes, it’s time to attend our favorite semi-annual fan con. Off we go to the wilds of northern New Jersey. This time not only will the Beatle’s secretary and lifelong president of their fan club be there, but so will TIM CURRY!


I’m dithering about this more than my usual dithering. The meet and photo op is wicked expensive- $100. I’m not griping, it’s Tim Curry, for Christ’s sake, Tim Curry! But the man is coming to Parsippany, NJ, which is no one’s idea of an international hotspot of hoppin’ good times and fine dining, and this bothers me. Is it great he’s out and about meeting with fans? Absolutely. But why? Why come to an insanely crowded, always sweaty and smelly fan con? In New Jersey? If he were still well and able-bodied and perhaps taking a weekend off from doing ‘Spam-A-Lot’ and thinking it’s a lark to hit up a con, sure, all good. But in a wheelchair? After a catastrophic stroke? To be pawed on by a bunch of faux Pennywises and Frankies for three days? Does he need the money THAT badly? My heart is cramped with grief just thinking about it.

Of course I’d love to meet him and thank him for all of his work. Once when I was lost in the black trenches of a horrible bout of depression, too sad and hopeless to even leave the couch, contemplating suicide (again), I was flipping channels and stumbled onto ‘Clue’. It had just started. Wadsworth the butler was explaining things to Col. Mustard at the front door and a tiny crack opened in the thick black sludge I was trapped in. Tim Curry’s plummy accent, the silliness I knew was coming, “To make a long story short…” “Too late!”, well, it helped. Did Tim Curry save my life? No. I did that. ‘Clue’ helped me realize I didn’t truly want to be dead, I just wanted the darkness gone, I wanted the pain to stop. For certain even if allowed enough time I wouldn’t lay that particular Little Match Girl tale of woe and redemption on him, I’m just explaining to you guys. Tim Curry has given me a lot.

So what’s to dither about? The picture. I know I will absolutely loathe the pic I get with him. I’m still reeling from the pics taken at the previous Chiller. The one with Jeff Kober haunts me constantly. All triple chins and ginormous drooping shelf of dowager bosom. GAH! Yes, I am that fucking vain. So what? “Jeeze, LA. You think Tim Curry is tickled with his lopsided post-stroke face? You think the badass who worked a merry widow and a pair of fishnets like nobody’s business is delighted with being in an adult diaper and a wheelchair? Get over yourself, girlfriend.” Yeah, I understand. Will I regret it if I don’t fork over a C-note and give Tim Curry a hug? Yes. God help me if he dies anytime soon. Will I cry, especially if he’s all slumped and sideways and an aide is wiping his chin? Yes. Will I look worse than ever and be ashamed of the bloated hag with the blotchy complexion and tiny bloodshot eyes peering out of the drooping folds of fat beneath the fright wig of nerd hair? The fricken wreck of a former beauty? More than you can possibly comprehend.

The humiliation is relentless. Darling Mick asked if I wanted to go to his work Christmas party. My anti-social guy is trying to be thoughtful of my isolation. I thanked him nicely and told him he was a champ to offer to suffer through a party (so NOT his thing) with his coworkers (WAY not his thing) just to please me but he was off the hook. The offer was good enough and counted for the deed. Knowing my love of parties and socializing he asked again, but went away pleased and flattered when I repeated myself. Mick WAS a champ! What a sweetie! So thoughtful. So brave. But honestly? Like I’d do that to him. As if I’d set him up to be mocked and laughed at behind his back. I know what a snake pit of gossip and ugliness he works in and there’s no way I’ll allow my dearest to be the butt of cruelty.



I love my husband too much to let him be the unknowing ‘winner’ of the Christmas party dog fight. Still on the fence about Tim Curry though.


Hey look! I managed to make a whole post! Cool beans! ~LA

The Stinky Princess

Hoo baby, is it a Monday! It’s a mega-Monday! Fortunately almost everything has a straightforward solution.

The dog who rolled in skunk juice will get a bath. Actually a shower.

The leaky dishwasher door will get a new gasket.

Mick’s dead car will get what it needs. Helloooo warrantee! Fingers crossed it’s just a fritzed alternator and not rodents chewing up the wiring like what happened to his previous car and we ended up going into a huge financial hole because basically he needed a new car since rodent damage is NOT covered by warrantee. Nightmare City.

Be gone, evil Monday! You shall not win.

Back in May I gave myself a haircut. A rather severe buzzcut. My coif was less than half an inch long. I went that short because my hair was fried from the silver-blue experiment and its disastrous ‘repair’ of hooker blonde. Aside from trimming around my ears a few weeks ago my mop has grown unchecked since May and now looks like this:




Only not quite that sexy.

Trying to make something of the messy non-hairdo on Saturday when my sweetie insisted on taking me out it dawned on me that I am punishing myself with bad hair again. Stuttering horror over my weight plus massive guilt about not having a job. I swear it snuck up on me, I was not deliberately doing penance. Not in my top mind at all. Today I’m giving myself a trim and a serious dethatching. NOT a humblebrag when I say I have too much hair, but seriously only bed sheets should have a threadcount this high. Also when Mick gets paid on Friday I’m buying some super bleach and a completely ‘unsuitable’ hair color and do my head up right. If I am unemployed then I should take advantage of the freedoms that brings. First and foremost- really cool hair.

I’ve been crushing on mermaid hair for a while now, but have neither the youth nor the length to pull it off.




I’ll probably go with a deep raspberry or try the silver blue again. Depends on what sifts to the top when I go through my cold weather clothing. Not a lot fits anymore. Another thing that snuck up on me, because last year at this time all I wore was my work uniform and my pajamas after I got home.

One thing I know I need is a winter coat and I’ve been eyeballing this one over at Torrid.




I’ve always been a fan of military-style outerwear. Army jackets, pea coats, there was a time I’d have sold my soul (or bod) for a West Point cadet great coat.




Never got one of those but I did have a fabulous O.D. green Army trench coat from the late 1960s. I wore that thing to rags. I thought I was seriously styling in that coat but I probably looked more like a member of the PTA secret police.

I should probably go scrub my smelly dog and do something with this Azkaban hair and fight the evil that is this most Monday of Mondays.


Keep the good thought Mick’s car is a quick and easy fix, won’t you? ~LA


In searching for an inspiring topic to write about I ended up at Pinterest and there among the gratitude lists and ‘What ifs’ I saw this…

Lemon Wedges




Snort. “Really? Bottom of the barrel much? ‘Lemon wedges’ what a dopey…well, actually lemon wedges, um, they, I mean I do have a thought, maybe a couple of thoughts, shit I have A LOT to say about lemon wedges.”

I am not particularly germphobic but lemon wedges creep me out. For one thing they usually sit around unrefrigerated in a container that is rarely washed. More lemon wedges are usually just dumped on top of the last few stragglers when the supply gets low. And even if the lemons are cut by gloved kitchen staff they are almost always fished out and jammed onto the rim of your glass by a bare handed server. Bar lemons are particularly nasty. If my drink shows up decorated by one of those pestilent things I immediately pull it off and wrap it in a napkin. If I am done the courtesy of being asked if I want lemon I don’t hear, “Lemon with that?” I hear, “Mucus, random schmutz, possibly plague in your beverage?” Brrr. Blech. No thank you.

Yet conversely and perversely, the smell of lemons signals ‘clean’ to me. I dearly love lemon scented cleansers. By far my favorite over pine, florals, and that ubiquitous ‘cleanser’ scent. Though any of those is preferable to bleach, ammonia, or Lysol. The only household scent that does it for me more than lemon is Niagara spray starch. Ironing is the happiest, most comforting smell in the world to me. Even above the olio of salt water, fish, hot grease, and Coppertone that means Seaside Heights.

The fans of ironing are a dying breed. At least the way my contemporaries and I remember ironing. Our mothers likely regarded ironing as a Sisyphean burden but the thump and “whssht PAH!” of a steam iron being stood upright, the musical jangle of wire hangers being untangled, the warm moist no-smell of damp cotton being pressed and the finishing touch of the final buff using Niagara spray starch…ahhh.

Have I wandered off from lemon wedges? Yes and no. I mentioned Seaside up there and lemon wedges belong with those memories too. I can’t believe that in all the times I’ve written about my summers at the shore I’ve never mentioned the mother’s helpers. Probably because no mother’s helper ever made much of an impression on our tribe of little beach savages. Every family brought a mother’s helper. Nothing as fancy as an au pair or nanny, mother’s helpers were the teenaged daughters of family friends. Daughters who were too old for camp and too young for legitimate summer jobs. Ostensibly it was a win-win – the beach moms had someone to ride herd and keep an eye on the savages and the families back home could relax knowing their daughters were chaperoned during a healthful summer of sun and surf.


Truth was the moms were snockered on thermoses of lime rickies and vodka gimlets by noon. The mother’s helpers clustered together on blankets near the lifeguard stands and flirted with the whistle gods. The mother’s helpers worked on their tans with baby oil and their highlights with spritzes of lemon juice, and ignored us completely. On Friday nights when the dads showed up the mother’s helpers had the night off, ha!, and while we wearing dry clothes and shoes for the first time in a week sat through boring swanky seafood dinners with the parents (lemon wedges galore) the mother’s helpers ran amok with the lifeguards and boardwalk bums and often didn’t show back up until late Sunday afternoon. The beach parents kept mum because they didn’t want the helpers’ parents at home to flip out and/or risk losing their child minders halfway through the season. Us kids? Made no nevermind to us. Except for a couple hours every week when the dads took us wave hopping and kite flying the only ones actually paying attention to us were the Sicilian grandmas. The nonnas gave us sandwiches, kissed our sand scrapes, and laid us down for naps in the shade of their umbrellas. I remember falling asleep to the whoosh and retreat of the waves and the musical Calabro of the nonnas gossiping. Even then there was the smell of fresh lemon. Lemon being squeezed onto scungilli and calamari and popo, the tentacled horrors the nonnas bought from the dawn fisherman at the docks after 7:00am mass.

Either I didn’t know the right families or that particular era of shore experience was over but by the time I started wearing this there were no mother’s helpers jobs to be had.




I did wear Love’s Lemon though and their Baby Soft. Mega creepy to think about the latter now, but in the late 70s it seemed normal enough. But then many many oddities seemed normal enough in the 70s.

Wow, look at all the writing juice I squeezed from lemon wedges!


Punfully yours, ~LA



Watery Coffee

Now that I am a bum again and no longer have coworkers and customers to jabber with I think I’ll be bending your ears more often.


I, like most of you, am exulting in the turn in the weather. Few things are better than the first days of fall when the air is crisp and everything smells like apples. My only real complaint with the coming of the cold is giving up sandals. I’ll miss the ease of wearing dresses too but it’s saying good bye to the flip-flops that really irks. My feet HATE shoes. As a free spirit (ie: unemployed person) I could opt for the classic thick socks and Birkenstocks. In fact I could really go all in and wear them with leggings under a batik skirt topped with a homemade sweater I assembled from used pot holders and muppet fur, but I’m not feeling quite that fancy. Being weird takes a lot effort. All that haunting thrift stores and jumble sales to find those essential wardrobe pieces for your bag lady ensembles, assembling your collection of nutty hats, to say nothing of catching and skinning muppets to make sweaters with. Frankly? It’s just too much work. If I’m bothered by the hassle of having to wear shoes and socks it’s for darn sure I don’t have the patience to be making necklaces from dip-dyed pasta and roadkill tails.

Even if dressing myself is a chore everything else about fall is crazy good. We already have pots of mums on the stoop. Mick’s idea. A compliment and a love offering. When we met Mick was the most holiday hating guy ever. He made Scrooge and the Grinch look like pikers. Then love happened and just like those two more famous guys Mick’s heart opened. Life became this joyous thing. Now Mick is all about the happy. His absolute favorite thing is seeing me smile.

A long, long time ago in another blog in another life I described a favorite daydream. I wanted to be adored. I wanted to be someone’s darling. At the time I attributed my scorched loveless landscape to my lack of femininity. I was simply too big. Too beefy and capable for anyone to spoil. But oh! How I longed for it! I put it thusly: ‘I want to be one of those women that men do crazy things for. I want a man who’d climb a mountain, swim across a piranha-filled river, hack his way through a jungle and fight off natives to finally arrive at my door with a curare dart sticking out of his neck to present me with a diamond ring and a pint of Cherry Garcia.’

He’s here.

And I didn’t have to lose an ounce or make myself smaller in any other way either. There wasn’t anything wrong with me, I just hadn’t met the right guy yet. And now that we’ve found each other we’re both about the happy. After I post this I’m going to the kitchen to make his favorite mozzarella/tomato salad and bake a key lime pie. Because…you know.


I’m going to make a fresh pot of coffee too. The one I made this morning tastes like dishwater. All my love, ~LA

Ramble On

One of the best things about the internet is how broad its reach is. I just finished watching a half-hour long segment on Al Jazeera about Chinese tourists in Paris. The narrator was British, the crew had an Australian cameraman, an Arabic sound engineer, and a Moroccan producer. My Mandarin isn’t wonderful but what I could catch was translated properly in the subtitles. I am always amused by the culture clash of the mainland Chinese and the rest of the world. Plus as an American it’s gratifying there are now hordes of tourists worse than us. Having grown up with the ‘Ugly American’ trope I’m quite happy to hand the title of ‘worst tourists’ to the Chinese.

Another recent viewing was a tongue-in-cheek miniseries called ‘Very British Problems’. Catch it on Netflix, it’s really quite funny and informative. Narrated by Mrs Weasley (aka: Julie Walters) it’s a semi-comic study of British angst. Watching it I realized again how American I am. Aside from the fact that I loathe guns and truly do have respect for other cultures I might as well have Uncle Sam tattooed on my chest because I am that American. Like a humongus Labrador Retriever I’m just a dopey friendly simple to please oaf who is annoying and amusing in equal measure. Clap a piece of duct tape over my mouth and I will immediately shift into sign language and scribbling notes on napkins, nothing on Earth can shut me up. I am emotional, enthusiastic, and have zero social phobias. You can drop me into the middle of a gang of Taliban and I swear that within a quarter hour I’d have them showing me how to make lamb qorma and doing the hokey pokey. I am harmlessly rude and utterly irresistible.

Between Netflix and Prime I am usually well fixed for two of my favorite things- Chilean movies and Korean soap operas. I keep trying telenovelas but find the men off-putting. It’s the combo of slimy persona and excessive grooming…yuck. I’ve never been into smoldering pretty boys.

Oh! One more foreign movie. No worries, it’s in English. In fact it is English. ‘A Royal Night Out’. Adorable. Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret escape the palace to celebrate VE day with ‘the people’. Pure fluff but frightfully well done.

Now if I can just convince the streaming services to hurry up with more seasons of ‘The Great British Baking Show’ I’ll be all kinds of happy. I don’t watch it on PBS because I only watch TV on my TV when I go to bed. I am absolutely out of the habit of making it a date to watch a show at a certain time and do not have dvr. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to avoid spoilers and stupid Netflix only has season one. First world problems, eh?


I will probably die in this stupid little town without having been anywhere but thanks to the internet the world comes to me.


Much love from your armchair traveling pal, ~LA